by Scott Cook
Sam slapped the steering wheel. “How the hell could he know already? The news won’t be on for another two hours!”
“You’re not the only one with police contacts, you know.” She looked at the phone again. “Should I answer it?”
“You’re joking, right? What are you going to tell him? ‘Hey, Ship, just working on a story that’ll help get Rufus Hodge out of prison. Oh, and Diane Manning died right in front of us. Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, right?’”
“We’ll have to talk to him sometime.”
“Sometime is after we get this thing figured out. I’d rather beg forgiveness than ask for permission. Besides, we’re both officially on vacation. What we do is none of Shippy’s business.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” she said. “Maybe eventually you’ll believe it.”
They reached Tess’s condo, a low-rise in the southwest with a decent view of the foothills, a few minutes later. Sam got out and helped her down, holding her elbows. With her feet on the ground, it was almost an embrace. She looked at him with those green eyes for a long moment. For the first time, he let himself think about the fact he could have lost her today. It wasn’t pleasant.
“Tomorrow morning, then,” she said.
Sam let go of her, startled. “Yeah,” he said. “Tomorrow. I’ll get the cab and pick you up. You’re closer to Anderson; I’m farther north.”
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“Let’s just say it’s the kind of neighborhood where Blue Thunder feels right at home.”
She smiled. He smiled back.
“Hell of a day,” she said.
Sam chuckled softly. “Hell of a day.”
He watched her walk toward the lobby door, keeping her in sight until she disappeared into the elevator. He had to know she was safe. He was beginning to think he might need to know that for the rest of his life.
#
Blue Thunder chugged to a halt in front of Sam’s house in the northwest fifteen minutes later. His landlord, a hard-drinking handyman in his sixties who owned the place and lived downstairs, sat on the darkened ramshackle porch like a fading southern colonel. He was wearing a white undershirt and his trademark pushbroom moustache. Even in the dark, Sam could see the pit stain as the man raised his glass to him.
“Sammy!” the old man croaked. “What’s happenin, kiddo?”
Sam sat down on the porch’s railing. It creaked ominously under his weight in the darkness. “Nothing much, Ray,” he said. “Got shot at by some guys, shot at some guys. Got caught up with the leader of a gang of organized criminals. Same old shit.”
“Attaboy,” Ray slurred. “Give em hell. Wanna drink?” He waggled a bottle of bourbon.
Sam took the bottle and drank deeply. Ray peered at him through red-rimmed eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I think I am,” he said. It must have been payday; Ray had splurged on Jack Daniels, instead of the cheaper hooch he bought the rest of the week. Sam luxuriated in the burn as the booze flowed down his gullet, the bloom of fuzziness in his head as it hit his bloodstream.
Ray took the bottle back and refilled his own glass. “Hey, your’n vacayshun, ain’tcha?
Sam smiled. “I sure am. Heading out first thing in the morning.”
“Attaboy. Young fella like you, gotta see the world. Have an avenshure. Don’t wait till yer an old fuck like me. Then you don’t do nuthin.”
Sam patted him on the shoulder as he turned to climb the rickety outside stairs to his second-floor apartment. “You’re not an old fuck, Ray,” he said gently. “You’re in the prime of your life. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
“Ah, yer a good boy,” Ray said, knocking back half his glass. “You have a good trip, y’hear?”
“I hope to, Ray,” Sam called down the stair. “I definitely hope to.”
CHAPTER 23
The band turned out to do more than rockabilly. The Kokanee Bottles played a few east coast jigs, a couple of Beatles dance tunes (including Angie’s favorite, Twist and Shout) and even a rendition of that hoary Johnny Cash staple, Ring of Fire.
The beach was decked out like a summer patio: the boardwalk was lined with plastic lanterns, folding chairs, and collapsible tables, each of which was covered in white plastic cups. The beach itself was the dance floor, and the home of the Kokanee Bottles’ makeshift stage. Drinks were simple: beer from a keg, highballs from the bar. If you wanted wine, you had your choice of red or white. Anything more complicated than a screwdriver, you were encouraged to go elsewhere.
Alex and Angie danced the entire first set away, barefoot, beers in hand, until they finally collapsed at their table when the band took a break around ten o’clock. Dozens of fellow revelers surrounded them on the beach, kicking up sand and letting off steam. Alex couldn’t remember when he’d had a better time.
Angie snuggled close to him, stroking his leg under the table with her foot. The patio lanterns cast soft shadows on her face and hair, making her look ethereal and other-worldly. “How’s your drink?”
He peered into his cup. “Non-existent,” he said, an air of suspicion in his voice.
“Mine, too,” she said. “It’s a conspiracy. I’ll go get us some more.”
They drank and danced the rest of the night away. Around midnight, the Kokanee Bottles finished their encore, and the crowd started to break up and stumble their way back to their cabins, or condos, or motels, or trailers. Alex wasn’t at all tired yet, and he talked Angie into a moonlight stroll on the beach. A few other stragglers wandered past them as they ambled along in silence, fingers intertwined. Their feet left shallow footprints in the fine, silty sand, kicking up clouds of dust with every step.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said Angie.”
“I was just thinking about how dirty this sand is making my feet,” he said. “I think I might need another shower.”
She giggled and planted a long, wet kiss on his mouth. They necked for awhile, until Angie finally broke the connection. She stared at him with a look Alex couldn’t read in the moonlight. She seemed confused.
“I didn’t expect this,” she said. Her voice was low and sounded on the verge of tears. “I mean, when I came here. To Lost Lake. I was supposed to be here just to work. I didn’t expect you.”
He held her close again, arms wrapped around her waist. “I didn’t expect you, either,” he whispered in her ear, ignoring the guilt that always threatened to well up in his belly when he thought about The Story and how all this might end. “But these days, I thank God for surprises.”
“Oooooooo,” came a sound from behind them. Alex turned to see a handful of young men, probably college age, following them. One of them, a muscular blond in a tight tank shirt, seemed to be the one catcalling.
Well, that’s what I get for bringing God into this, Alex thought, annoyed. Thanks for the surprise, big guy.
He kept one arm around Angie’s waist as she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “How you guys doing tonight?” Alex called, sporting a grin he definitely didn’t feel.
“We’re fucking awesome, man,” the blonde replied. Alex could tell the kid was high. On what? Coke? Meth? He could only assume the others were, too. Great.
“How about that band?” he asked.
“How about that babe, man? She’s fucking hot.”
Angie gripped Alex’s hand, pulling him along with her. “You guys are sweet,” she said. “We’re just on our way home. Have a good night.”
The college boys sped up to a jog and quickly closed the gap. They were all carrying white plastic cups filled with a reddish liquid. Alex’s heart rate doubled as they walked up alongside them.
“What’s the hurry?” asked the blonde. He draped a heavily muscled arm over Alex’s shoulder. “The night’s still young. Party time, man!”
Alex tried to smile. He had seen guys like this in bars before. They were unpredictable; some would take a gentle rebuff and go on their way. Others were loo
king for something else.
“Sorry, guys, I’m not as young as I used to be,” he said. “Gotta get my beauty sleep.”
“No problem, dude,” said another of the frat boys. He was skinny, with a patchy beard that made him look like a Taliban soldier. “She can come along with us, and you can go on home to bed.”
Angie gripped Alex’s arm more tightly. “That sounds great,” she said. “But I’ve gotta work in the morning, and my boss is a bitch if I’m late. Sorry.”
The blonde reached forward and grabbed Angie around the waist, dragging her away from Alex’s grip. “Come on, babe!” he hollered. “Fucking YOLO, man!”
Alex’s pulse doubled again as the adrenaline roared into his veins. He dropped a hand on the blonde’s shoulder and spun him around. “Let her go,” he said. He could hear the fear in his own voice.
The blonde looked offended that someone had laid hands on him. “You shouldn’ta done that, man,” he said. “Shoulnd’ta touched the merchandise.” His right fist exploded in a tight arc, connecting squarely with Alex’s jaw.
Angie screamed as Alex hit the sand like a sack of fish. Taliban grabbed her by the arms from behind, holding her in place. “Don’t worry, babe,” he laughed. “You don’t have to hang out with Uncle Downer here tonight. You got us.”
Alex struggled to get to his feet. The blonde stopped him short with a sandaled foot to the ribs. The air whoofed out of his lungs and he dropped back down.
“Alex!” Angie shrieked. “Oh my God, Alex!”
“Stay down, man,” the blonde warned. “Just stay there.”
Alex rolled onto his back, gasping like a fish on dry land. He couldn’t get his breath. He couldn’t take another kick from this blonde ape, but he couldn’t let them take Angie. He looked up at the sky as the copper tang of adrenaline flooded his mouth.
Suddenly, the moon disappeared.
“Howdy, boys!” a nasally voice hollered. “Looking for a good time?”
Alex heard what sounded like a fencepost hitting another fencepost, and the next thing he saw was Taliban dropping to the sand next to him.
“Get that fucker!” he heard the blonde yell. Then he heard a scream that reminded him of the time he had visited a hog slaughterhouse for a story. That was followed by a sickening crack, followed by another piercing wail.
“Geez,” said the nasally voice. “You oughtta get that trick shoulder looked at.”
Alex had his breath back by now and managed to raise himself up on an elbow. He still couldn’t see much, but the moon had reemerged from hiding and he could make out shadows. The blonde was kneeling on the sand, clutching one arm in the other hand. It seemed to be hanging from his shoulder socket at an impossible angle.
Two silhouettes moved simultaneously toward what appeared to be a wall. Suddenly, the wall moved, and Alex heard the sound of a baseball bat hitting a side of beef, followed by a dull crack. Two more shadows hit the ground.
The wall turned around and faced the last of the silhouettes. “No, man,” Alex heard the last frat boy plead. “Everything’s okay, man. I’m just gonna go, you know?”
“So soon?” asked the wall. “The party’s just gettin started, man!”
The frat boy turned to run, but the wall blocked him. Alex heard the sound of brick on bone. Next thing Alex saw was a body being hoisted above the wall. It dropped quickly to the ground next to him. He was close enough to see blood streaming from the kid’s mashed face.
Alex finally had his wits about him again. “Angie!” he shouted. “Angie, are you okay?” He had no idea what the wall had in store for them.
“She’s fine,” said the wall above him. As it leaned closer, Alex could make out features in the moonlight. It was a human face, as round as the moon itself, and covered with a beard that could qualify it as an honorary member of ZZ Top. Huge hands reached out and grabbed his shoulders, hoisting him to his feet as if he were a rag doll. Angie stood there, eyes wide, chest heaving, staring at the aftermath of the carnage.
The wall-man surprised Alex by flashing a wide, friendly grin. He reached out a hand the size of a baseball glove and enveloped Alex’s own in a bone-bruising grip. “Name’s Shitbox,” he squeaked. “Pleased to meetcha.”
CHAPTER 24
Eddie Spanbauer had never arrived at work early before, unless it was for time-and-a-half. He wasn’t much of a union man, but he also never felt the need to give away his time for free. But here he was, walking the halls of the Badlands Institute at three a.m.
Jason Crowe had been clear in his phone call a few hours earlier: protect Rufus Hodge at all costs. There would be another attempt on his life, and soon, possibly from multiple attackers. As he hurried towards Hodge’s cell, Eddie wondered if he was here early because he feared reprisal from Crowe, or for another reason entirely. Was he, in fact, eager to keep Hodge from harm? Would that really be so crazy?
Eddie had told the night shift guards that he had come in of his own volition after he saw the attack on the Wild Roses’ clubhouse on the late news. They had given him some funny looks, but they didn’t question him. That was good; he might need some help, depending on how the attack was carried out. He ran over scenarios in his mind. They had installed two more cameras and an extra guard in the laundry after the incident with Billy Trinh and the Aryan, so that was out of the question.
Eddie thought if it was going to be an Aryan attack this time, it would happen in the mess hall, in full view. Aryans were well known as prison assassins, and they didn’t care about the fallout. The uglier, the better. Longer sentences meant nothing to them; all they cared about was money and status within the inmate community. If they wanted Hodge dead, he would need all the help he could get to keep the man alive.
Hodge was lying on his back in the dark with his hands laced behind his head when Eddie arrived. The ugly man didn’t open his eyes. “Morning, officer,” he drawled. “What brings you here so bright and early?”
Eddie blinked. “How did you know it was me?”
Hodge sat up and turned, planting his feet on the floor. “I smelled you. Even if I couldn’t, I know your footsteps. You’re a heel-walker.”
Eddie blinked again. Could that be true? “I got a phone call. The Aryan Brotherhood shot up your clubhouse last night.”
Hodge turned his head to the side. He was still looking at the floor. “Gimme details.”
“Your lawyer was killed. Nobody else was hurt. Just a lot of bullet holes.”
“That’s too bad. I liked my lawyer. Now I gotta find a new one.”
“There’s concern that the Aryans might come after you inside.”
“Good thing I got you.”
“Yeah,” said Eddie. “It is.”
Hodge rose from the bed and faced Eddie. “I need a favor from you.”
“What?”
“I need to use your burner phone. Gotta talk to Crowe directly.”
Eddie blanched. “I can’t. There’s cameras in here.”
“Drop it down your pantleg, then kick it into the cell. Make it look like you’re mad at me; they’ll be watchin your hands, not your feet.”
That sounded ridiculously simple, but Eddie thought it could work. He used his fingernail to tear a hole in the righthand pocket of his trousers. “Okay,” he said. “Make me mad at you.”
Hodge smiled his wolf’s grin. “My pleasure.” He stomped forward suddenly, jamming his face into the bars and snapping his teeth.
Eddie genuinely flinched, then remembered the plan. He raised his baton and raked it across the bars. As he did, the phone slid down his leg, and he kicked it up and over the crossbar on the floor of the cell. He shouted for good measure.
Hodge sat back down on the cot and covered the phone with his foot. “Thanks, officer. I think I’ll go back to sleep now.” He lifted his legs, phone hidden between both feet, and rolled over to face the wall. He reached down to scratch his leg, retrieved the phone, and pulled it next to his head in the darkness of the cell.
&nb
sp; Genius, Eddie thought. Whoever’s on the cameras wouldn’t have noticed any of that.
He stood guard outside the cell as Hodge murmured into the phone. The conversation, as always, was clipped on Hodge’s end. After several minutes, he rolled over. The burner phone was nowhere to be seen.
“Shit’s going down, officer,” Hodge said. “You’re going to be busy for awhile longer, but maybe not that much longer.”
“Why?” Eddie asked.
“Because I’m either gonna walk out of here a free man, or I’m gonna be carried out in a pine box.”
CHAPTER 25
Alex leaned on the giant as the three of them walked slowly down the beach. He didn’t think anything was broken, but his ribs ached like a bad tooth, and he could feel a black eye forming. He could see his own confusion mirrored in Angie’s face as the man who called himself Shitbox spoke.
“It’s nice to finally meet you folks,” the big man said amiably. “I mean, I kinda feel like I know you already.”
Alex finally had enough wits about him to ask: “Who are you?”
The man turned his head and looked at him with wide eyes. “Oh geez, I’m sorry!” he said. “Lookit me; here I am thinkin you know who I am because I know who you are! I’ve been watchin you since you got to Lost Lake. Jason Crowe sent me. I’m one of the Wild Roses.”
Horror exploded in Alex’s belly and he felt the taste of adrenaline in his mouth again. How had they found him? Did they get to Leslie Singer somehow? How the hell was he going to survive this?
Angie. Oh God, Angie.
Alex wrenched himself painfully away from Shitbox. He swayed a bit, but managed to keep his feet.
“Let her go,” he breathed. His ribs ached with every breath, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest. “She has nothing to do with this. It’s me you want.”
Angie looked from Alex to Shitbox and back again. Her eyes were wide, but she still hadn’t spoken. Shitbox just looked confused. Then he smiled again, almost apologetically.
“Geez, I’m stupid!” he said, smacking his giant palm into his forehead. “I’m really sorry, Alex. I didn’t mean to scare ya. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m supposed to be lookin after you. Keepin you safe.”
